(((beat box)))
I say in democracy we
are all about how we
elect, select,
protect, respect, not invect, but in
honesty, our citizenry, got a place to be,
in my country, where everybody sees
me...
(((rhythm track, up the bass)))
Hecate: Moccasin Flowers by Mary Oliver
nice postBand name: Envirometal
Sorry about the silence. You know what Sigourney's adverts says, "in space..."
I've been working on rewriting an old fairy tale from another perspective and going to skool.
band names: hi8us
TVBhindURI
Dvotion
too much time thinking about words ;-)
Over dinner that evening, George told again about the blue Toyota.
“I got the first two letters of the license this time,” said George.
“Have you called them in to Officer Chang?” asked Stephen.
“Yeah, as soon as I got home,” said George. “I called and left the message,” George said with disappointment in his voice.
“I hear you,” said Stephen.
Barbara made another call to the pre-arranged number.
“Hello, Jimmy,” she said.
“Hi, again hun,” a man replied, whose voice revealed no particular age nor race.
“What do you think about the ongoing situation, Jimmy?” Barbara asked.
“I don’t know, hun. What do you want me to do about it anyway?” he answered.
“I know you can’t do anything yourself, but if you knew someone who could work something out for me, I’d appreciate a little assistance,” said Barbara, her voice remained lifeless, with no inflection.
“I know what you mean, but that is going to be even more difficult for me to initiate now that the first part’s still not completed.”
“Cut it out, Jimmy,” Barbara’s voice lost, if possible, any remaining sense of human interaction and became purely cut and dried.
“I hear your frustration, hun,” the last word was slightly more emphasized, a reminder that Jimmy was more to Barbara than a contact upon whose resources she was relying, even if she was paying for the service. “But you understand my situation as well. I have already committed myself to another schedule.”
Barbara paused. She knew she was treading on thin ice, even making another call to the number her nephew gave her. It was to the man who “kept the books” for a nationwide trading group. The trade was mostly in illicit supplies- meaning drugs and prostitution Barbara expected, from the rules that were set out by her nephew for contacting this number. She had looked up the area code and prefix. They led to some Minneapolis suburb called North Hudson.
“Jimmy, let me say it this way: I need a favor,” said Barbara. She had crossed the line. No turning back now. These people would be expecting payback from her. Hopefully they wouldn’t reach beyond her workplace.
“Well now, since you put it that way, we can talk some more about the details of your problem and see if I can spare someone to help you.”
Barbara thought she could almost hear a smile on the lips of the man’s face at the other end of the phone as she hung up. Her problem would be addressed. Someone would call her in the next couple of days to find out some details of the next step – the payment.
George went to see his spiritual director for his monthly appointment.
Sr. Estella greeted George with a warm cup of tea and an invitation to come and sit down in the ‘direction’ room. George didn’t know what to call it, because it was really too small for anything but a large closet or a tiny sitting room or office. The sisters had outfitted it for meeting privately in this sort of situation. There were two old leather chairs, not too comfortable, sitting at roughly ninety degrees from one another. Their arms were separated by an off-white marble-top wrought iron table that held a lamp and a small houseplant.
“How are your prayers, George?” asked Estella.
“Pretty good considering the situation,” answered George.
Sticking with the issue George had come to see her about Estella asked, “And where have you found the Divine in your prayers lately?”
George smiled slightly and stepped up to the challenge of sticking with the agenda of the meeting. “I have actually been really surprised with what I’ve been seeing in my prayers.”
“Hmmm. What have you been seeing in your prayers?” Estella caught George’s revelation, he was again seeing in his prayers. Much of George’s prayer life had been about words and emotions and memories, but in the last several months he had been describing visual experiences. Sometimes these were accompanied by sensations or even words, but the images were powerful enough to keep them occupied for an hour and a half discussion each month.
“Well, I’ve been trying to keep the pattern we have talked about in the past, but I’ve actually been having some trouble as I get caught up in the images,” said George.
As he looked at Estella, he saw the note of concern flicker across her eyes, and so he offered, “I know, I read at least one Merton book in which he says the lights and sounds are some of the easier distractions to transformation and more significant learning through meditation or prayer. I don’t think that this is what I’m experiencing. I also find that, as in other things in prayer, they come to a end every single time.”
“Okay. That’s a helpful observation, but let’s stick with talking about the images for now,” redirected Estella.
“After I do my regular settling in, I usually find myself sitting quietly and then there is the sense of someone beside me. Sometimes she is even holding me,” said George.
“You are sitting and someone is beside you, even holding you?” repeated Estella.
“Right,” replied George.
“What is her presence like?” she asked. “What is it like to be held by her?”
“I feel held.”
“What else can you say about what that’s like?”
“It’s as though my skin is held up; my head is held. My heart is held – I mean the organ inside of me – so that it is light weight,” said George.
“What is that lightness, or holding like?” Estella asked.
“It’s… I don’t know. I feel touched into my understanding, or the place where my emotions start from,” said George. “I think what is happening is that I feel carried up, almost out of myself.”
“But that’s more about thinking than noticing on a more open or contemplative level. Let’s try to stay there. How do you notice that you are in this place? Or, what do you notice first about being there?” said Estella.
“Oh, that’s the name of the Merton book, Contemplative Prayer,” George knew he’d be distracted trying to remember the name to Estella unless he blurted it out right away. Then he went on, “When I am sitting and meditating, I begin to notice I am not alone. That is what I realize first.”
“So, what is that presence like? What’s it like to be in that Other’s presence?”
George was silent for a while as the presence surrounded him again in his recollection.
“Hello, Officer Chang?” asked George.
“Hello, Reverend,” the officer responded, “What can I do for you?”
“I am calling to make sure we have talked about everything that seems to be happening about the case of Henry Isaacson’s murder.”
“Oh? Is there more that you can tell me about?” said Chang.
“I wanted to make sure you got the message about the tires up in the foothills this weekend-“
“You mean the tires being flat? Yeah, I got that message the other day,” Officer Chang cut in.
“Yes, and this week on Tuesday, I was driving and realized I had to back home for something and saw a car behind me, which, after I had turned around, was behind me again in a couple minutes. It followed me to within three blocks of our house,” said George.
“Really. Did you get a license number?”
“No, I didn’t think of that, and they were pretty far back after I had turned around. I did get a pretty good look at the person in the car as he made the last turn we made together.”
“Okay, we’ll get to that. Did you see the make and model of the car?” said Chang.
“I only saw that it was a blue Toyota and it looked like it was a pretty recent model, maybe two or three years old,” said George.
“Okay, now tell me about the person driving.”
“I am pretty sure I recall seeing somewhere,” said George.
“Maybe from church? Is he a… what do you call it, a ‘lazy’ member? Or did you meet him at another church function?”
“I… hmmm. You know that sounds like it might be right, but I cannot place it. Maybe he was part of a baptismal party, or the child of an older member… I just can’t remember.”
“Can you give a description to an artist? We can try to get a picture of him for other people to look at as well.”
“I can describe him pretty well. I recall his face from that last turn,” said George. “Does the fact that you are going to ask an artist to help mean that you think I may have seen Henry’s murderer?”
“Father, all I can tell you is that we are working very hard to find out how and why Mr. Isaacson was killed. And one line of investigation we are pursuing is that you, or maybe your community, might have been the intended target for the perpetrator. We don’t know why, yet.”
Iliana Morrison’s niece, Barbara got up from her desk, and took out her purse from the filing cabinet. She locked her desk drawers with a key from her purse, and went out to her car. Vincent’s car was still parked at the end of the lot. She hadn’t seen him inside though.
“Probably out with Tony down at the ‘Tenner Pub’ watching rugby again,” she thought. “He’d better be careful or his mother is likely to shorten the leash she kept him on.” And a moment later, “Did I? …Oh damn, I forgot to pick up the security deposit check to bring back to Pr. George.”
Barbara got out of the car and went back up to the office and retrieved the check, got in the car and drove home, shaking her head one last time as she drove past the blue Corolla near the street.
Tim had much to tell about the meeting with the religious community event planners, but had to wait until the following Tuesday unless he could get George for a few minutes on Saturday afternoon. Saturday morning he knew George would be back at his haunt, the Green Café, doing some sermon writing for the next day. Tim caught George after the morning meeting just as George was putting together the ingredients for their soup dinner.
Leaning against the door frame in the passage by the Dali Last Supper, Tim poked his head in and asked, “Hey George, do you have some time later today? I’d like to touch base with you about what went on at the meeting on Tuesday with the ‘event planning group.’”
“Sure,” George said, looking up from the knife with which he was slicing vegetables. “I think I will be around this afternoon, probably between two and four. I’ll need to be back in here to work on the bread for tonight after four.”
“Great,” said Tim.
“What’s new, George?” asked Rosie. Rosie gave George a very nice smile and wink.
“Not much, Rosie. How are you?” George asked this to remind himself that he was a representative, in a certain role. He had chosen a lifestyle that precluded ‘special’ relationships for himself.
Rosie nodded, “It’s going pretty well. This place is booming and I’m happy about that. I am still working out how to live without you though.”
George almost choked, but Rosie laughed, “Got you! But good!”
George laughed hard, once he got past the idea that seemed good to him as well, “Oh man! Rosie, you’re killing me!”
“What would you like to drink, George? The usual, and two in a row?”
“Yes, please,” George tried to give Rosie his biggest smile and it wasn’t difficult.
Several hours later, with a ‘good idea on paper’, but less than finished in his mind, George packed his things away and made his way out past an early afternoon rush and down to his car.
The way home was marred by the blue Toyota again….
